


redamancy

by skatingsplits



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angry Sex, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, F/M, Rough Sex, lucius takes himself too seriously, married sadomasochists know how to push each other's buttons, post quidditch world cup, this guy is a dick but he loves his wife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:48:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26630050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatingsplits/pseuds/skatingsplits
Summary: redamancy (n); the act of loving one who loves you, a love returned in full.
Relationships: Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 10
Kudos: 43





	redamancy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [knowtheway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowtheway/gifts).



> 1\. A small part of me can't believe I'm writing Harry Potter fic but when the morally bankrupt marrieds call, I have to answer.  
> 2\. That said, seems worth saying that if you're a transphobe who's still batting for JK Rowling, I don't like you and I don't want you to read this!

**_"Truth to tell, the longer I live, the more I'm tempted to think that the only moderately worthwhile people in the world are you and I."- Pierre Choderlos de Laclos, Les Liasions Dangereuses._ **

**_"Beautiful sins, like beautiful things, are the privilege of the rich."- Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Grey._ **

Adrenaline is coursing through him; it’s pluming and curling through his veins like black smoke but instead of feeling suffocated, Lucius has been ignited. His body is taut with excitement and the delicious anticipation that can only come before an inevitable certainty. And it’s most certainly inevitable that his wife will be waiting up for him. 

It would only take one of his leather-gloved hands to count the number of times in the last twenty years that she hasn’t been. The last time was likely when their son was small and it had been much more common for Lucius to return home in the early hours, his pulse thundering after a night full of screams and blood and dirt and sheer exhilaration. Nights not entirely unlike tonight, fittingly enough, although he’s honest enough with himself to admit that the primary difference- a distinct lack of actual bloodshed- hadn't been as much of a disappointment for him as for some of his comrades. The thrill is enough, Lucius has never been overly keen on the... mess. 

The other notable difference is that, instead of curling up in a bassinet extravagant enough to put the sons of Pharaohs to shame, Draco had spent much of the evening eagerly pleading to be allowed to join in the next time his father decides to toy with the members of a lesser species. That’s a thrill too, of a sort. It’s precisely how he’d hoped the tiny blonde boy in the bassinet who had reliably slept through his parents’ post-slaughter lovemaking in the next room would turn out; but as long as he doesn’t disturb them this evening, Lucius wouldn’t care if he specialised in Divination and married a fucking Mudblood. 

Well, he wouldn’t care _as much_. He hasn't completely taken leave of his senses yet, although every second that passes without the touch of Narcissa’s cool, soft fingers on his burning skin is driving him closer to that breaking point. After so many comparatively sedate and stately years, he’s grown accustomed to only feeling his heart race like this when his body is intertwining with his wife’s- it’s little wonder that he had found himself overwhelmed with need for her as soon as he felt the first flicker of this thrumming elation. 

He had rather hoped that she might stay, join him even, if she’d wanted to. It wasn’t something he would ever have permitted when these endeavours were more serious but tonight he’d thought... no matter. It evidently hadn’t appealed to her and she’d slipped off home before the fun had really started, something which Lucius fully intends to make up for now. Repeatedly. 

It’s scarcely a couple of hours since he last set eyes on her but the surge of hunger he feels when he sets eyes on her in their bed could have convinced him that it’s been weeks. A glimpse of creamy white shoulder, the glint of cool, ashy hair that puts the warmth of the candlelight to shame, and he’s half-hard in seconds, like a bloody schoolboy. If he didn’t adore her so intensely, it would be easy to hate her for her ability to do this to him. For being the human embodiment of his own- his _only_ \- weakness, all wrapped up in demure blue silk. Lucius isn’t fazed when his wife’s eyes don’t lift from the pages of her book; it’s a familiar game, Narcissa feigning disinterest when they both know she’s as heady with desire as he is. There’s no other person in the world whom Lucius would permit to make him earn his pleasure but then, Narcissa is entirely unlike any other person. If she were the type of woman inclined to cling to him, he’d want her far less. 

Although something in the curve of her jaw tells him that this may not be mere teasing. There’s a tension there that wasn’t present three hours ago, hardness in the set of her mouth that warns him of cold anger buried beneath the surface, but it does little to deflate him. Fucking Narcissa is always bliss. Fucking an angry Narcissa who’ll draw his heated blood to express the rage she’s too well-bred to communicate in words? Divinity itself. 

Her eyes don't meet his until he plucks the book from her hand and carelessly tosses it over his shoulder where it meets his crumpled cloak, neither able or willing to keep the triumphant smirk off his face. Narcissa's own expression is entirely blank- or it would be, to someone who doesn't know that the tiny crinkle in her left eyebrow means that she's absolutely seething. 

“Ah, the conquering hero returns.” 

As always, her voice is cool and crisp, and as she sits up a little straighter he can see what an effective contrast the pale silk of her nightgown makes against the prussian blue of their bedsheets, so dark that they seem almost black in the dim light. The picture she makes is utterly charming, deceptively so. Lucius knows that her frankly celestial beauty is the reason so much of their acquaintance thinks of her as a ray of light in a family that’s always been swathed in darkness, despite the connotations of her birth name. And perhaps that had been true of Narcissa Black; Narcissa Malfoy, on the other hand, is a different creature altogether. Since the day they married, since the day they _met_ , she has never failed to look on the ugliest aspects of his life and his character with anything other than veneration- the same veneration with which he has met the delicious darknesses she’s let him see in herself. He had been sure that when he came home so enlivened, she would match her mood to his, as she always has. No wonder the excitement in his stomach is rapidly swirling into fury at her own cold anger. 

Not that this stops him from kissing her. Very few things could. Over the years, they have honed an evening’s first kiss into an art. Although he has to lean to kiss her even when she’s on her feet, he does not bend or kneel or make a supplicant of himself. Nor does he use his physical superiority to loom over her, take pleasure in stealing what is so much sweeter when willingly given. Either of those things may come later, depending on the turn the night takes, but for the first they simply meld together as one. It’s second nature, even when, as now, Narcissa seems to quickly realise she ought not to reciprocate. 

“Why, darling, I do believe you’re angry,” Lucius coos, condescension dripping from every word. The furrow in her brow deepens just a fraction as he pecks lightly at her rigid mouth again. 

“Angry? Certainly not. A little tired, perhaps, but then I’ve had a rather busy evening.” The frost in her voice would repel a lesser man but Lucius is nothing if not intimately acquainted with his wife’s tendencies towards the glacial. Mouth pressing kisses to the sharp line of her jaw, he merely makes a politely inquisitive noise that’s sure to infuriate her further and slides blue silk down her shoulder to further explore the soft skin there. The taste of her is clean and pleasant, the faintest traces of aldehydic bath oil lingering on her skin, and the prospect of marring her with the scent of smoke and sweat he’s carried home from the metaphorical battlefield is to enticing to resist. 

“It can wear one out,” she continues in that same controlled, cold voice. “Checking the Gringotts account, reinforcing the protection charms, packing a bag, all kinds of precautions. Doing things I haven’t had to do in a more than a decade. Things I would be forced to do if anyone with half a brain had the wherewithal to figure out who was hiding under those ridiculous masks, things I would have to do to protect myself, my _son_ -” 

“ _Your_ son?” The hot rush of adrenaline hasn’t disappeared; instead, it’s fanning the flames of anger until Lucius feels as though his entire body is burning with a sensation that is decidedly unpleasant but strangely exhilarating, all at once. “What a fascinating perspective you have on these things, my sweet. I was under the impression that he was our son. I seem to recall being involved at the point of conception, no?” Before she can move a muscle, he’s covering her body with his own, dirty boots and ash-covered cloak notwithstanding. The feeling of her beneath him reminds him how slight she is but instead of taking his usual care not to hurt her, he lets her bear his weight, makes it impossible for her to wriggle away. His hand slides up her thigh and he doesn’t bother to restrain his harsh chuckle when he realises the fabric he’s pushing aside is soaking wet. “Yes, I’m quite sure I was somewhere around _here_.” 

Pushing two fingers inside her is as easy as taking a breath. Only someone who had spent a very large proportion of the last two decades staring at Narcissa’s mouth would notice the way it twitches as he does; the rest of his clever girl’s face remains utterly impassive. 

“How impressive that your memory of some things is so exact, as it seems to be failing you when it comes to remembering your duty to your family.” 

Even if he had been perfectly calm beforehand, that alone would have been enough to spark a tinderbox of his fury. 

“Sweet of you to be so concerned, beloved, but my memory is unsurpassed. I remember, for example, when you would go weak the fucking knees when I came home bloody and dirty and sweating. I remember when you would climb into me lap and beg me to touch you while I told you who I’d killed that evening, whether they’d begged to be spared, how their screams had sounded.” He fucks her hard and fast with his fingers, only stopping when her breathing starts to sound shallow and excited. She doesn’t get to enjoy this, not yet. The obscenity of the noise when he pulls his fingers from her cunt pleases him and he shoves them past her parted lips before she can stop him. “How things change, hmm?” 

With an undignified snarl that makes his cock twitch, Narcissa bites down onto the soft flesh of his index finger and pushes him away as best she can, her beautiful face now gratifyingly flushed and angry. 

“I assure you that any change does not lie with me. The man I married, however, would not have put us in jeopardy simply because he felt-” 

With a small intake of breath, Narcissa pauses, and it’s evident from her face that she believes she’s said too much. Well, he’d have to agree. It’s almost difficult to remember that he’d walked through the door elated a matter of minutes ago; the promise of pleasure has been replaced with the defiant certainty of wrath. 

“Oh, don't stop there, dearest. Please, go ahead, tell me what I feel.” 

“Because you feel... emasculated.” 

The barb cuts deeper because he can’t pretend she’s entirely wrong. Lucius would die to defend the home they’ve made and the life they have now, a hundred times over, but it would be a lie to pretend that he hadn’t felt more truly powerful tonight than he has in years. 

“Do I?” He purrs, letting fury spill into his voice where he would once have kept it cold. He'd thought they were beyond that, beyond restraining their true feelings after two fucking decades- why cushion her by hiding it? Let her see what her sharp little tongue can do, that's quite obviously what she wants. 

“Emasculated? I had no idea.” He pushes his hard cock into her stomach with a curl of his lip and watches as her eyes grow heavier, visible even in the candlelight. “Because the thing is, I was under the impression that I felt very _masculine_ indeed.” 

“Perhaps if that really were the case, you would not-" 

But he doesn't give her the opportunity to lecture him on what he would not do in the fantasy she's conjured up for herself- his hand is over her mouth before she can get another word out and he's bearing down harder on top of her, crushing the body he's loved so well beneath him. 

“Perhaps what? Perhaps I would not be so lenient with a wife who is so intent on undermining me,” he snarls. “Perhaps I would show you exactly what has happened to the man you married. Perhaps, darling, I will.” 

The instant he moves his hand from her mouth, she tries to bite him, wriggling like an angry cat as she attempts to sink her teeth into his flesh. His blood is already heated and seeing his perfect, poised wife squirming like an animal beneath him has never once failed to arouse him. Her nightdress is silky soft beneath his hands and the satisfaction he gets from tearing at it, hearing the rip of the fabric and Narcissa’s furious hiss, is blissful. 

“Is this what you wanted?” He drawls contemptuously against her throat as he parts her thighs, squeezing and pinching at soft flesh. “Darling, if you want me to be rougher with you, all you had to do was say so.” 

He’s fucked her more times than they have Galleons in the vault and yet the pleasure of being sheathed inside her has never diminished; as he thrusts into her now, it feels so intensely good that all his fury evaporates for a moment. But only for a moment. 

“This is what you think rough is?” His beloved wife sneers. Anger comes pulsing back to him in an instant. “No wonder all you and your pathetic friends could bother to do was levitate a couple of Muggles. You’ve lost your touch, darling.” 

“Is that what you think?” Lucius purrs, and he licks greedily at the valley between her breasts. “Perhaps if you’d taken that stick out of your tight little arse, you would have been there to see for yourself.” 

Narcissa’s only verbal response is a viciously angry moan and even though he’s still mostly clothed, when she rakes her nails over his back, she does it hard enough to hurt. 

“Wanton harpy,” he hisses, biting roughly at her throat in retaliation. “Maybe you _should_ have been there. I’d have fucked you in the dirty grass so they could all see what kind of savage little slut I have to deal with.” 

At that, Lucius’s hips jerk forward almost of their own accord and Narcissa’s desperate moan of pleasure is lost against his mouth. It’s always been a favourite fantasy of theirs and it’s still enough to make his pulse thud years after he’d first whispered it into her ear mid-flagrante. Even the idea of reducing his perfect, poised pet to the desperate, vicious wreck who shares his bed in front of every wizard who’s ever wanted her... Highly impractical in reality, as he’d have no choice but to slaughter everyone who’d dared to set their eyes on her, but utterly divine in theory. It makes him _ache,_ the knowledge that nobody else has ever seen Narcissa like this. He hadn’t been especially aroused by the idea of her virginity when he'd taken it but as the years pass, it drives him wilder and wilder to know that nobody has ever known how his glorious creature trembles with pleasure as she's doing now, even as she’s blatantly furious with him. 

“Is that what they’d see? Or would they see a man who’s a slave to his own base desires, imposing his will on a woman he claims to love?” Narcissa sounds breathless and almost plaintive, but Lucius isn’t remotely fooled. It’s not a fact that he cares to admit, that he could as soon as impose his will on his wife as he could bring Salazar Slytherin back to life, but that doesn’t stop it being true. 

“Always playing the victim,” he drawls, moving one of the hands that had been holding her down to between her legs and laughing derisively when his touch is met with a desperate, high-pitched whimper. “When we both know exactly how fond you are of my base desires.” 

“Or so I would have you believe.” Despite her words, Narcissa is evidently not even trying to hide her body’s responses; her slim hips are meeting his thrust for thrust, the hand he’s using to rub firm circles on her clit is practically getting soaked, her lips are parted as she moans for him, and the picture she makes is so divine that it prompts a hungry moan of his own. 

“Don’t lie, Narcissa.” Cold grey eyes stay locked onto beautiful blue ones and a large hand comes up to cup a soft, pale cheek. “You can be as furious as you like with me, you’ll never stop loving this. You’ll never stop letting me do this to you. You’ll always be _mine_.” 

At first, Lucius thinks that she’s pushing him away; it takes a second to realise that her back is arching because she’s already coming, her unspeakably gorgeous face contorting with bliss in a way that is far more beautiful to him than placid prettiness ever could be. Her pleasure has always driven him beyond wild and a man with any less self-control would have quickly followed her over the edge. 

“So beautiful. I don’t think I ever love you more than I do when your wet little cunt is clenching around my cock, Narcissa.” He speaks in a low voice, his mouth ghosting over her jaw as he rocks his hips into hers, and he knows her body so well that he can move just in time to stop her teeth sinking into the tense tendon of his neck. 

“You’re a perverted bastard,” she pants, sharp little nails digging into his wrist where he’s cupping her cheek. He can only laugh, proving her right with a particularly savage thrust of his hips. 

“And you love it,” Lucius hisses, intent on making Narcissa lose herself in pleasure again until she bites down on his knuckle so hard the skin breaks and he’s so entirely submerged in the intense, exquisite sharpness of the pain that he’s spilling inside her before he can restrain himself. 

It takes a minute, maybe more, for Lucius to come back to himself and work his way out of the mindless fog of sated desire that could quite easily overtake him. He wants nothing more than to collapse next to his wife and take her in his arms but when Narcissa uses his stupor to wriggle out from under him and flee, he knows that isn’t going to happen. Cursing, he pushes himself up and manages to catch her by the wrist before she can leave the room. Narcissa is the furthest thing from a frightened deer but when she’s trying to avoid a difficult conversation, there is sometimes no other choice but to treat her like one. 

“How would it have looked?” He spits out, still somewhat breathless, squeezing down on the bone of her wrist just hard enough to make her meet his eyes. It’s not a conversation Lucius is exactly dying to have either, but he’ll be damned if he lets it fester between them for even a second more. “If I had refused to join in? What would they have thought? How long do you think it would have taken for the whispers to start? That the Malfoys were anxious to spare the suffering of beasts?” 

Narcissa’s lovely eyes flash with something that even he, after all this time, can’t quite identify, but he thinks that her iron posture has relaxed just a touch. 

“That does not give you carte blanche to be reckless,” she murmurs and Lucius has to bite back the twinge of a smile. That's not a word that can often be applied to him, to either of them. 

“You worry too much.” He brings her hand to his mouth kisses her knuckles, scraping his teeth over soft skin for just a second. “They can't touch us, darling. Believe me, if I’d thought for a moment that they could-” He shakes his head, dismissing the unpleasant thought altogether. “I would never let that happen and you know it. You are the only thing I care about.” 

Narcissa’s face softens for a moment before freezing over into devastatingly proper composure again. “Then act like it.” 

Stirred, he kisses her instead of responding and he knows from the feeling of her mouth and the easy way she nibbles at his bottom lip that the fight is over. For now, at least. 

“And next time, don't waltz in looking so pleased with yourself,” she says tartly, her hand on his jaw. “Really, Lucius, you didn't even kill one.” 

“That's my girl,” he drawls into her hair with a lazy grin, and when she can’t repress her own smile, he knows that he’s forgiven. 


End file.
